


Landsmeet

by belated



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, but like Angst Lite, one of my old pieces
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 13:05:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18873766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belated/pseuds/belated
Summary: The Landsmeet had its consequences, and now she has to live with them.





	Landsmeet

It’d taken strength she hadn’t thought she possessed to unite Ferelden and topple Loghain, especially as Alistair withdrew farther from her and from their duty to end the Blight. Weeks of fighting and planning had brought their party to this point, and left Maelle drained of all but the will to slay the Archdemon and be done.  
It was a familiar feeling, this…emptiness; it tied itself to the memory of her family abandoning her to the Circle; it wound itself through her Harrowing as demons pulled at the sorrow and loneliness and dread the stones of Kinloch had buried in her heart; it pressed deep into her soul as Jowan and Lily and the countless dead at Ostagar fell.  
It had felt natural to withdraw as far into herself as possible, then and now, and let habit control the rest.  
What wasn’t instinct then, it seemed, had turned to bitterness, a fury that, deep down, she feared would be the end of her should a spirit catch her in the Fade and push just enough to make her snap. It wasn’t fair to blame Alistair for that, she knew, but he’d held her responsible for the conflict of his own conscience and she was not above the petty indulgence of one-sided revenge.  
She’d loved him at the start—still did—loved the way he could make her laugh, and the way his arms curled around her late at night, like he was shielding her even in sleep, and the little grin that followed his terrible puns or a loss to her during a spar or when he coaxed a moan from between her lips during sex.  
His company had been a blessing on the journey here, his optimism—naiveté, perhaps—a counter to her blunt pragmatism. She loved him for it, for his empathy, but she’d learned survival in the Circle, learned to pick carefully which Templars she fought and when losing a battle was less important than her safety; whether or not the people they encountered understood, she’d told him, after their first battle together in Redcliffe, hatred from the living was better than grieving over the dead.  
And it was a sentiment she often repeated to herself as they gained allies and enemies in equal measure; when the Dalish were driven to broker peace at the expense of their keeper’s life; when she’d re-established Templar control over Kinloch Hold, knowing how the Templars would treat the surviving mages; when she’d ensured the ascension of House Aeducan. Alistair had recognized the deflection for what it was, though he’d been patient with her at first, but she could do little for him when he disagreed so completely with every choice she made: during one horrible fight, the first and last of its kind between them—Maelle spat at him that if he knew what to do, he was more than welcome to act the senior Grey Warden and take command, shocked to realize she truly meant it.  
Alistair fumed for days after—ignored how so much responsibility choked her, told her at every opportunity she was callous and a disgrace to Duncan’s sacrifice, and left her to agonize over the harm they’d caused alone—and she’d grieved his distance as much as the circumstances that had caused it.  
No one else noticed, or, at the least, mercifully chose not to mention, the strain months of endless fighting set on her. She took care to eat and drink when the others were watching, leaving the spices out of the food she ate to spare her increasingly weak stomach, and offered cheerfully to keep first watch, up late into the night and often waking the next person hours after they should have changed shifts with a quiet laugh and a joke about her forgetfulness. In hindsight, she realized Sten had most likely noted the change and simply decided not to say anything; he often helped prepare meals when it was her turn to cook, giving her her portions first before he spiced the rest, and wordlessly switched to second watch, sitting silently next to her late into the night without forcing a conversation or urging her to sleep.  
Inevitably, Wynne mothered her, worrying about how little she slept or how pale she looked and she would relent without an argument, retreating to her tent to sleep fitfully or choking down a meal or potion and holding onto it as long as her nausea would allow. Alistair’s distance had been a blessing then, when she’d needed to stop pretending and hadn’t wanted to give him the satisfaction of seeing her struggle. Any one of her companions would have filled that void if she’d asked, but it was a selfish request so long as she held on to the hope that Alistair would want to reconcile—a hope that died at the Landsmeet, after she spared Loghain.  
Alistair stood by Anora, pointedly ignoring her as the other woman addressed the nobles on behalf of her and her soon-to-be husband and she immediately wanted to apologize; the words died in her throat, killed by her stubbornness and, she was big enough to admit, her self-pity.  
They were beyond apologies now; she believed in her decision, and she was certain Alistair wouldn’t let her explain what exactly she was sorry for.  
A vague sort of fury welled up in her chest when he didn’t come to see her after, even to rail at her again in private, after Riordan brought the news that Loghain had survived his Joining. Anora came instead, brimming with thanks and hopes that her father could make amends for his actions against the Grey Wardens, and Maelle pasted on a smile for her and the others present until at last she could excuse herself under the guise of preparing for another week’s journey to Redcliffe.  
Privately, she allowed herself the luxury of an angry cry, more empty than cathartic when what she truly wanted was to level the room around her with her magic and her fists, however pointless the destruction.  
Instead, she resolved to save her fury for the darkspawn and the Archdemon, inconveniently far away though they were (in a month, she would choke on a horrified laugh), and argued with herself over seeking Alistair out, if only to let the hurt that would inevitably follow serve some purpose filling the hollow in her chest. He hadn’t needed to tell her they were done—he’d refused to even speak to her, retreating to some corner of the palace where he knew she wouldn’t be allowed to follow—but there was no finality in an unspoken, angry separation, and she—Maker help her—wanted to spare him the regret that might follow if the darkspawn finally ended her.  
In the end, she wrote him a letter, carefully worded and less than a half-page long, a genuine goodbye and a flippant wish for his happiness in the slightly sardonic tone she’d stopped using months ago. He wouldn’t know the difference, or at least she hoped if he bothered to re-read it he’d assume she meant it all in the same spirit, and despise her for it long after she left to face the Archdemon.  
So long as he lived, she would make her peace with that.


End file.
